


how the wounds are forever

by sarahyyy



Series: MasterChef AU [8]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Break Up, M/M, MasterChef AU, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2950679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re leaving?” Enjolras asks finally, when he can no longer find the energy to fight with Grantaire about this anymore, and it’s not really a question, because he already knows the answer. </p><p>“Yes,” Grantaire says. </p><p>Enjolras blinks, swallows past the lump in his throat, pushes down the gripping pain in his chest, and says, “I’m not just talking about the restaurant.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	how the wounds are forever

“You’re leaving?” Enjolras asks finally, when he can no longer find the energy to fight with Grantaire about this anymore, and it’s not really a question, because he already knows the answer. They’ve been talking about Grantaire’s Patron-Minette job offer for the past two days, and all it’s ever done is to make them argue, make them yell at each other, and Enjolras is so tired of fighting with Grantaire, so tired of being angry and upset and heartbroken at everything. 

“Yes,” Grantaire says. He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it up even more than it already is, the way he always does when he’s stalling, looking for the right words. He settles for repeating himself, “Yes.”

Enjolras blinks, swallows past the lump in his throat, pushes down the gripping pain in his chest, and says, “I’m not just talking about the restaurant.”

Because he comes with the restaurant, doesn’t he? He’s made that joke before, _Courfeyrac_ makes that joke every time he dines with them. Grantaire knows better than anyone else that he comes with the restaurant, knew right from the start when they opened the restaurant together that the restaurant would become a part of Enjolras. 

Grantaire sits down on the couch next to Enjolras, and doesn’t reply for a long moment. Instead, he reaches out and takes Enjolras’ hand in his, laces their fingers together carefully. 

“I don’t think I am, too,” Grantaire says quietly finally, and squeezes Enjolras’ hand. 

— 

It’s a bad idea, but he goes into their bedroom before he can talk himself out of it, crawls into bed, curls himself around Grantaire, and presses his face into Grantaire’s neck. 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire whispers, hoarse. He must’ve been crying too. 

Enjolras’ arms tighten around him. “I love you,” he tells Grantaire, because it has to count for something, it has to be enough, it _has_ to make Grantaire want to stay. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He turns his head, presses his lips to the side of Grantaire’s jaw. “I love you so much.”

Grantaire’s eyes are screwed shut. His breathing has turned ragged. “Enjolras,” he says, and curls his arms around Enjolras. 

Enjolras trails his lips up the curve of Grantaire’s jaw, kisses him gently on both corners of his lips. “I love you,” he says again, before he seals their lips together, licking into Grantaire’s mouth, desperate. “Grantaire, please, I love you.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says again, breathes the words into Enjolras’ skin, and kisses him back with the same urgency Enjolras sought his lips out with, pushing at Enjolras’ pyjamas bottom, trying to get it off him. 

“You too,” Enjolras says, moaning when Grantaire fists his cock, and pulls away so Grantaire can take his boxers off too. “Please, R, you too.” 

It’s been awhile since they’ve done this, and Enjolras knows he shouldn’t, not like this, but Grantaire wraps his fingers around both their cocks, and he ends up keening into Grantaire’s mouth. 

“I love you,” he says. “I need you. I love you.”

Grantaire doesn’t reply, just kisses him and kisses him as they grind against each other and come like that. 

“Don’t leave me,” Enjolras says, almost sobs the words out. “Please, R, don’t leave me. We’ll make this work, I promise. You don’t have to stay at the restaurant, we’ll work something out. You can open your own bakery, your own dessert-restaurant right here. We can open one together, one fucking right next to the restaurant, and you can be in charge of the entire place. We can make this work, just- Please. Don’t leave me.” 

“I love you,” Grantaire says, and wraps his arms around Enjolras when Enjolras curls up against him. He presses his lips to the top of Enjolras’ head. “I love you,” he says again, firmly. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

It feels less like an affirmation that Grantaire won’t leave, and a lot more like Grantaire trying to convince himself to stay. 

Enjolras hates himself for asking. It’s selfish, so fucking selfish, to make Grantaire choose him over his career, but Enjolras can’t bring himself to take the words back. Instead he curls his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist and slowly falls asleep to Grantaire telling him that he loves him.

They will talk about this again when they wake up. Enjolras will sit them both down and they will talk about this, and they will work something out. They will be fine, Enjolras will make sure of it. 

—

In Enjolras’ dream, Grantaire echoes the words he said to Enjolras once, “I love you more than anything else in the world. That’s the problem.”

Grantaire is gone when Enjolras jolts awake.

—

“Chef?” his grill chef, Étienne, calls out tentatively, when Enjolras has been staring for way too long at the empty dessert station. 

Enjolras flinches. “Don’t-” he starts and swallows the _don’t call me Chef anymore_ he’d meant to say. “We’re not serving desserts tonight.”

Étienne frowns. “Are you sure, Chef? The amuse-bouche is a cold dish tonight, and all we have to do is to plate it. Maria can easily take over desserts tonight. I think she’s looking through the dessert menu already.”

“We’re not serving desserts tonight,” Enjolras says again tightly. 

The items on the dessert menu are all Grantaire’s creations. They’d sat together on the floor of their living room, with notes and recipes all spread out around them, Grantaire worrying himself half to death about what to add into the dessert menu the first time. He’d woken Enjolras up at three in the morning later to spoon a mouthful of pistachio mousse into his mouth, and his eyes had gone bright and happy when Enjolras jolted awake at the taste. They’d worked on the cherry tart together, kissing jam off each other’s lips every time they made a new batch. Grantaire almost swore off chocolate experimenting over different chocolate-based desserts because Enjolras insisted that there had to be at least one chocolatey item on it. The dessert menu is _Grantaire’s_.

He’s not replacing Grantaire. 

There’s no replacing Grantaire. 

—

He flinches whenever someone mentions the word _chicken_ , but that’s progress, because at least he isn’t turning behind to check if it’s Grantaire saying it, and then feeling heartache whenever he doesn’t find Grantaire anywhere anymore. 

He makes it through a month before he takes it off the restaurant menu.

—

One of the new line chefs that Enjolras hired says _I noticed we don’t have a chicken dish on the menu yet, maybe we could do a grilled chicken with a pesto base linguini?_ and the whole kitchen goes silent. Enjolras, for his part, only knocks over a steel mixing bowl from the station closest to him, which is progress, he supposes.

“You’re all dismissed,” he says tightly, because it’s been three months now —to the day, actually— and he should have more control over this, but it doesn’t feel that way right now, and he doesn’t want his staff to see him lose control of his emotions again. 

No-one moves.

Enjolras musters up his best glare and barks, “Get out of my kitchen right now or you’re all fired.”

They all hurry out of the kitchen.

It’s been three months. Three months and no word from Grantaire at all. Three months in and Enjolras still doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing not going after Grantaire. Three months in and he was informed by Feuilly this morning that Grantaire has indeed signed a permanent contract with Patron-Minette. 

Three months in and Grantaire officially isn’t coming back.

It’s a Tuesday night. Tuesday nights are when the restaurant is closed. Grantaire was the one who suggested Tuesdays. “ _It was the day we met_ ,” he’d told Enjolras, beaming up at him and dropping a careless kiss to his cheek. Enjolras had okayed it because he’d never been good at saying no to Grantaire, but he thinks he should change it now, close the restaurant any other day. Any other day would be less painful, would remind him less of Grantaire. 

That is a lie. 

They’d moved in together on a Monday, Grantaire lugging in the final box of his stuff into Enjolras’ apartment, and then laughing into Enjolras’ mouth when it was done. “ _I can’t believe we’re doing this_ ,” he’d said to Enjolras before he pushed Enjolras back down to the nearest couch. “ _You have the rest of the weekend off, yes? We’re going to have sex all over your apartment, Chicken, just you watch._ ”

Wednesdays had been kitchen date nights for them, the first month they opened the restaurant. They would put something special on the menu and work together in the kitchen on that one item, reminiscent of their old MasterChef days. He remembers the ease at which they worked together in the kitchen, the way they knew each other so well that he would only have to hold his hand out to have Grantaire hand him a fresh sprig of basil or a fresh spatula, no words exchanged. He remembers they way they manage to never get into each other’s ways, remembers the way he’d laughed when Grantaire had first said that if they were going to keep cooking around each other, they should choreograph a tango out of it and make a name out of themselves as dancing chefs. 

Thursdays were Desserts-for-Dinner Day because Grantaire had told him shortly after they’d started living together, “ _If we’re going to have a designated Pasta Day, I want a day where we eat desserts for dinner too. How else would I wow my boyfriend if not with my fancy dessert skills? Keep up with the programme, Chicken._ ” Enjolras had told him that he could think of a few other ways, and Grantaire had laughed. He was still laughing when they landed on top of the bed together. 

They had signed the lease for the restaurant on a Friday. Grantaire’d brought a picnic basket for them and they ate dinner on a picnic mat in the middle of an empty shop. Enjolras ended up with his head on Grantaire’s lap, trading ideas excitedly about what they were going to do with the restaurant, where they would put the counters and the tables, and what colour scheme they were going to go with (“ _Red, Chicken, it could only be red._ ”), and eventually, Enjolras’d leaned up and kissed Grantaire. When they were both breathless and holding each other’s hand, sweat cooling off their naked skins, Grantaire had turned over to him and said, “ _This place is going to be amazing. You’re going to be amazing. I love you so much._ ” 

One of Grantaire’s favourite things to do had been to sleep in on Saturdays, and even though Enjolras would wake up early like he always does, he would spend the morning curled up against Grantaire, letting him rest. Much later, he would sleepily trace the tattoos on Grantaire’s arms until Grantaire slowly woke up, mumbling, “ _Good morning, Chicken, I love you._ ”

They would make breakfast together on Sundays, Mystery Box style. Over the course of the week, they would each pick up random items of food and drop it into the shopping basket they had sitting by the pantry. The rule had been to use every item in the shopping basket (“ _What the hell, R? Is this pickle paste? Just looking at it makes me want to- God, can we throw it out already?_ ”) , and they’d both had to suffer through some really odd breakfasts just to keep that rule unbroken. 

He hates Grantaire. He fucking hates Grantaire for leaving the restaurant, for leaving all his friends, for leaving _him_. He hates that Grantaire was unhappy, hates that the only viable way left for him to be happy was for him to be away from Enjolras.

He hates how it’d seemed so easy for Grantaire to leave, to not say goodbye, to not even try to call him, hates that it’s been three months since Grantaire has left and he’s still here, bitter and heartbroken, and slumped against the wall of his kitchen, thinking about Grantaire. 

(He thinks, perhaps, that most of all, that he hates himself for the way he had been so wrapped up in the restaurant, in his own career, that he’d completely missed all the signs that Grantaire felt unaccomplished around him.)

—

He takes to working more than usual.

He changes the layout of the kitchen, arranges it so he doesn’t have to look at the dessert station unless there is an absolute disaster going on. He could move the dessert station, but he is reluctant to. Changing anything Grantaire-related would make this whole thing seem actual, seem _final_ , and he- 

He doesn’t want that. 

He stares at his phone and waits for Grantaire to text, to call, to do _anything_ , really, sometimes when he’s alone in the apartment, but Grantaire never does. 

It doesn’t surprise Enjolras much.

He tries to call, one night, but doesn’t make it any further than the first three rings before he presses the button to end the call. He doesn’t know what he would’ve said, doesn’t could what he could’ve said. 

( _I miss you, I miss you so much, and I would give anything up if you’d just come back, R, I love you so fucking much._ )

Grantaire doesn’t call back, and Enjolras stares up at the ceiling until he falls asleep, the ache in his chest now frightfully familiar.

—

He doesn’t mean to, but one night he keys the words _Patron-Minette_ into the search bar, and goes into their website. His cursor hovers over the STAFF button on the menu bar for a moment before he clicks into it and scrolls right down to the bottom of the page, where generally all new chefs to the team would be added to.

He tells himself that he’s prepared for it, that it’s been four months now and he should be prepared for it, but his breath still hitches and his eyes still sting when he sees a grainy photo of Grantaire. He clicks on it and it takes him to Grantaire’s page, where a larger copy of the photo heads the page, followed by a short introduction, and an interview with Grantaire. 

In the photo, Grantaire has his arms crossed over his chest, the Patron-Minette logo blazoned over his chef’s jacket, and he’s grinning at the camera, carelessly happy, and Enjolras feels a pang in his chest because Grantaire looks happier than Enjolras remembers seeing him in the last few weeks they had together, looks the way he used to look before things got bad with Enjolras.

 _The culinary world’s fastest rising dessert chef_ , the first words of Grantaire’s introduction reads, and Enjolras stops reading after that, scrolls back up to Grantaire’s photo, commits Grantaire’s smile to memory, and crossed out of the page. 

Grantaire is happy, and Enjolras should be happy for him. He wants Grantaire to be happy, and if Grantaire finds that he’s only happy when he’s not around Enjolras, Enjolras should accept that and try to be happy that Grantaire is happy, except he looks up from his laptop and is faced with their wedding photo, hanging in the centre of the wall, surrounded by dozens of their other photos.

They’re both smiling and laughing and so, _so happy_ in the photos, and Enjolras wants that back, wants that again, would give anything to go back to smiling and laughing and being happy with Grantaire. He wants Grantaire to come back, wants Grantaire to have never left him in the first place. 

“ _It’s not all about you_ ,” Grantaire had said, in their last fight, and Enjolras hadn’t been able to understand how Grantaire could think that at that time, but he thinks he understands now.

Grantaire is happy, and he should want to keep it that way.

He closes his eyes, remembers the crinkle that Grantaire gets in the corner of his eyes when he smiles, and lets sleep wash over him slowly.

—

Combeferre and Courfeyrac announce their engagement the next time they invite everyone out for dinner. 

Enjolras’ good spirit lasts until Bahorel says, “That makes two MasterChef marriages from our season!” 

Everyone goes quiet suddenly. Bahorel winces as Feuilly jabs him in the ribs, and Enjolras forces himself to smile and wave off Bahorel’s awkward apology before taking a huge gulp of the wine in front of him to stop himself from saying or doing anything stupid, because it’s been six months now, six months since Grantaire has left, and he should be making progress at getting over it. 

Courfeyrac gives him a concerned look and Enjolras just shakes his head at him — tonight is a night of celebration for Courfeyrac, and he shouldn’t have to spend it worrying over Enjolras. 

Conversation around the table slowly resumes, but Enjolras deflects most people’s efforts to drag him into a conversation, and focuses on drinking instead. He’s allowed to drink; he’s happy for his best friends.

He’s well beyond tipsy by the time he gets back to his apartment. 

Tipsy, sad, and so, so alone. 

“R,” he whispers into the quiet of the apartment, even though he knows that the _Hmm, Chicken?_ he’s waiting for isn’t going to come. He feels numb all over. Numb. Empty. He doesn’t want to feel like that anymore. “Grantaire.” 

He picks up his phone, scrolls through his contacts until he lands on Grantaire’s number, and calls him. 

Grantaire picks up after the sixth ring; Enjolras has never made it this far. 

“Hello?” Grantaire says, and his voice is quiet and gritty over the phone, but it’s the best thing Enjolras has heard in a really long time, and he can’t help the bubble of laughter that falls out from his lips.

Only, once he starts laughing, he can’t stop. He keeps laughing until somewhere in the middle of the line, he isn’t, because he’s crying instead, and _Grantaire still hasn’t hung up on him_. 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire says tentatively. 

“R,” Enjolras chokes out. “God, _Grantaire_.” 

Grantaire doesn’t say _what have you done to yourself, Chicken?_ , doesn’t say _you’re supposed to okay by now_ , doesn’t say _you’re making me worried_. He says Enjolras’ name instead, the soft, concerned murmur that he’s always used on Enjolras when he was afraid that Enjolras was working too hard and not taking good enough care of himself. 

Enjolras has a million things he wants to say to Grantaire, has so many questions that need answer, has so many apologies to make, but the only thing that comes out from his mouth is an urgent, “R, do you still-?” 

Grantaire doesn’t reply for a long time. 

Enjolras almost thinks that he’s hung up on him already, thinks that he’s maybe wasted his once chance to talk to Grantaire, thinks that maybe this time it’s really over now, even if he doesn’t want it to be, but then Grantaire’s voice comes through again, so softly this time that Enjolras has to strain to hear him, “Yeah, Chicken. Yeah, I still do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand that's the end of MasterChef AU! Look I even finished it before the year is out! :D Title is from [Ballad of Booth](http://www.lyricsmania.com/soundtracklyrics/assassins_soundtrack_lyrics_93/the_ballad_of_booth_lyrics_1389.html) because it's literally the only thing I have in my head.
> 
> I'm [here on Tumblr](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/), come say hi! :D
> 
> ETA: There're extra ficlets and not-fics and headcanons over on my [masterchef au](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/tagged/masterchef-au) tag on Tumblr. One of them is the fix-it that everyone's been asking for. :)


End file.
